No easy task that press assumes
Which takes the lead in Freedom's band,
And scatters in nocturnal glooms
The blaze of Reason through our land:
Each empty bellows would, no doubt,
Rise, and aspire to put it out.
Blamed though you are, pursue your way;
Night evermore precedes the sun;
Whate'er some angry king's-men say,
You play a game that must be won:
The bliss of man—is the great prize
That yet at stake with tyrants lies.
When first a mean, designing few
Their poisonous dregs by Herald spread;
An antidote, by such as you,
Was at the root of mischief laid;
With a simple herb from Reason's plains
You kept all right in Freedom's veins.
Now hostile views, and low design
Are busy to annoy your page,
Controul its strength, its fires confine,
And war with sense and reason wage:
They hope, with fogs to quench the sun,
They hope your useful race is run.
But though some narrow hearts contrive
To shove you from your mounted car;
Right pleasantly we see you drive,
And hardly heed their little war:
Like insects, creeping in the dirt,
They merely serve to make you sport.
Who looks at Kings, a court, a queen,
With childish pomp, and borrowed fame,
But wonders from what genius mean
Their chaos of confusion came—
Yet those on little things depend,
And every reptile is their friend.
[134] From the edition of 1809, the text of which I have followed in all but the title which is "To a Democratic Editor." This poem first appeared in the Time-Piece, October 23, 1797, with the following introduction: "'He that first put a real mark upon the forehead of the Beast was the inventor of Printing. This mark was impressed deeply, and becomes deeper from day to day.'—Erasmus."